


game plan

by treescape



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin was raised a Sith and is Sidious's apprentice during the Clone Wars, Eventual Smut, Jedi Obi-Wan, M/M, Raised a Sith!Anakin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29110569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treescape/pseuds/treescape
Summary: The measure of footsteps is familiar—and right on schedule. Obi-Wan has been waiting with more anticipation than is seemly, perhaps, but there’s a certain satisfaction that comes of these encounters. He finds himself avidly curious, in the days and weeks that stretch between, to discover what Vader will say or donexttime.Or, Vader keeps capturing Obi-Wan during the Wars. Obi-Wan keeps escaping. It's kind of a thing.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Vader
Comments: 96
Kudos: 444





	1. open hand

The measure of footsteps is familiar—and right on schedule. Obi-Wan has been waiting with more anticipation than is seemly, perhaps, but there’s a certain satisfaction that comes of these encounters. He finds himself avidly curious, in the days and weeks that stretch between, to discover what Vader will say or do _next_ time.

“Hello, dear one,” Obi-Wan says calmly, a hint of amusement in his voice. He doesn’t open his eyes, just yet. He knows it is foolish that he allows himself to savour these confrontations, but it certainly passes the time. “Fancy seeing you here.” His hands rest loosely on his knees where he sits, legs crossed at a scrupulous angle in the cell. It isn’t the same one he’d occupied the last half dozen times he’d been captive on this ship, but that’s quite alright; he thinks it likely that Vader hasn’t had the chance to have it reconstructed, yet, after that mess above Ryloth.

Possibly Obi-Wan should apologize for that, but then, he rather thinks Vader deserved it.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes when he gets no response, raising one eyebrow in pointed question. Beyond the force field that separates them, the young Sith is a riot of gold and black, like sunlight and ink over water, so vivid it’s almost an ache. His silence is curious; Vader luxuriates in trying to goad him, in testing Obi-Wan’s patience and composure and wit.

It’s one of the cornerstones of their odd little game.

But Vader doesn’t look like he’s playing a game, right now, or if he is, it’s a very different game to the one they’ve become accustomed to. He watches Obi-Wan with the same intensity as always, gaze hungry and sharp, but his shoulders are a tight, endless line beneath the dullness of shadowsilk. His hands are empty of anything but air, but the fingers of his mecho-hand curl with a precision that suggests he longs for the weight of a lightsaber between them.

The maelstrom of emotions that never fails to pull Obi-Wan in is so very, very calm, a silent, deadly rage that doesn’t frighten him so much as make him deeply, _profoundly_ curious.

From where he sits on the unforgiving floor, a quizzical tilt to his chin, Obi-Wan briskly reassesses the past three standard weeks for whatever might possibly account for this change. Surely it can have nothing to do with Ryloth and that overloaded shield generator. Vader would have expected nothing less of him; _stars_ , he’d practically left a formal invitation.

They _are_ , after all, archenemies in a galactic war.

Whatever it is, Obi-Wan will have to factor it into his escape this day, though he hasn’t quite figured that part out yet, either. Every breakout is a little different. The first time he’d escaped Vader’s grasp, some six months ago, it had come down to sheer incompetence—the guards’, not Obi-Wan’s. He’d whisked himself away in the early hours before dawn and left Sidious’s young apprentice with no hostage and no trace. The _second_ time he’d escaped, Obi-Wan allows to luck and the distraction of a Republic fleet. After that—

Well, by now it has become something of a contest of wills. Obi-Wan surrenders to Vader or his troops, a diversion that never fails to allow Ahsoka and Cody time to lead the 212th to safety. Vader triumphs over him with barbed words, and Obi-Wan escapes soon after just to do it all again a few weeks later. Obi-Wan finds that there’s a magnetism to the pattern, an inevitability that he’s certain Vader feels just as much as he does.

And if Vader never seems quite ready to simply execute Obi-Wan and to dispense with the game altogether, well, Obi-Wan’s not sure just how happy he would be to kill Vader, either.

It’s a bit of a problem, really, all things considered.

The force field disappears without warning, and the resulting silence rings louder than blaster fire. Obi-Wan masks his surprise only through decades of practice when Vader strides rigidly into his cell and drops to one knee before him. Night pools around his figure as he kneels, soft folds of shadowsilk that do nothing to hide the capable lines of his body. Vader doesn’t exactly _tower_ over Obi-Wan like this, but there’s enough distance between them that Obi-Wan would have to crane his head back to meet Vader’s gaze—if Vader hadn’t reached out to lift his chin in a firm grasp instead, tilting it deliberately in the regulated light.

The touch is a shock, though it’s not the first time Vader has ever touched him. They’ve met on the battlefield more than once, after all, a flurry of blades and limbs and the boundless sea of the Force. But this touch— _this_ touch holds a softness that belies its adamancy, and the unexpected warmth of callused fingers against skin and beard makes something sink dangerously in Obi-Wan’s gut.

“Who did this?” Vader’s voice is hot, the words a chaos of anger in counterpoint to the critical calm of his Force presence. It takes several seconds for Obi-Wan to put together exactly what he means. It isn’t until Vader’s thumb sweeps along the curve of his cheek that Obi-Wan fully registers the dull throb of a young bruise, the faint coppery scent of blood on flesh. It’s a flat enough ache, and a shallow enough cut; they would hardly seem worth registering even now if it weren’t for the fire Vader’s touch leaves in its wake.

What _is_ worth registering, though, is the way Vader’s voice holds a sharpness that Obi-Wan has never heard before, his eyes a glint that seems harder than gold. It is, Obi-Wan thinks, entirely interesting.

It is also, he knows, supremely _dangerous_ as well, in a very great many ways.

“It’s barely a scratch,” he points out, voice low and amused, but it does nothing to diffuse that deadly calm. “And I _have_ just been very recently captured.” Truly, it had been an inelegant capture at best—the troops Vader had sent had seemed rather new—but in the end it had done the trick. At the very least, Ahsoka had rolled her eyes and yelled “ _Have fun with your boyfriend, Master!_ ” while helping a limping Waxer onto a nearby ship.

It occurs to him very suddenly to wonder what orders Vader’s troops have been given concerning him—if _not_ hurting him is one of them, and if it isn’t, if maybe it soon will be.

“I want a name,” Vader says. “If you don’t have a name, I want a description.”

 _Well, that would be one way of taking down the Separatists_ , Obi-Wan thinks, _one by one by one_. 

Obi-Wan certainly doesn’t have a name to give Vader, and truth be told he doesn’t feel like giving a description, but he’s more than a little interested in seeing how this plays out. So instead he says, “I don’t imagine this is how your interrogations are _supposed_ to go,” and watches as Vader’s eyes flare grudgingly at the humour in it.

“I will interrogate you on whatever matters I see fit,” Vader says irritably. His fingers tighten just a little along the span of Obi-Wan’s jaw, grip still somehow infinitely gentle against the soft underside of his chin. “And I want to know who dared to hurt you. I want to know who is responsible, and I want to know before you leave here.”

Obi-Wan smiles, because a thought has occurred to him, and he suddenly knows _exactly_ how he’ll be leaving Vader’s ship this day. “Ah. Well. If you truly wish to know so badly, then it would make me a very rude guest were I to refuse.” Vader’s eyes linger on the upturn of his lips, and Obi-Wan wonders, for a moment, what Vader would do if he kissed him.

He wonders what _he_ would do if Vader let him.

But such thought are madness, no matter how often they occur—and Obi-Wan has an escape to engineer, a Padawan and a Commander who are likely beginning to wonder where he is by now, and, most importantly, a war to win.

Vader watches him expectantly, and Obi-Wan smiles again in lieu of shaking his head against that careful, implacable grip. “You’ll have to come closer, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t want anyone else to hear.”

There’s no one else even remotely close by—the nearest life forces Obi-Wan can sense are hundreds of feet away, and he doesn’t imagine there are any droids, either, given that Vader seems to prefer not to use them—but Vader bows his head nearer all the same. Obi-Wan finally tugs free of his touch, though Vader seems reluctant to let him go, and wraps one of his own hands around the back of Vader’s neck. 

He very carefully doesn’t think about how easy it would be to slide that hand up into Vader’s curls, how _effortless_ it would be to anchor his grip and to never let go.

“Your Master,” he murmurs against Vader’s ear, and it is perhaps dangerous and foolish but he says it all the same, “is the one responsible.”

It’s true enough, in its own way; Sidious stands at the centre of this war, and his shadow reaches far indeed.

They are so close that Obi-Wan can practically feel Vader’s mouth twist into a scowl, the press of Vader’s cheek against his own warm and soft and somehow almost sumptuous, but he doesn’t linger to hear a response. Even as the whisper still resounds between them, Obi-Wan is moving, reaching to unclip his own lightsaber from where he senses it hanging at Vader’s belt. The hilt is warm from having been held so close to Vader’s body, a heat that seems to catch fire along his own skin and sink into the depth of his own veins.

At least he won’t have to go in search of it, he thinks.

“Until next time,” Obi-Wan says, and then he is gone, winding swiftly and agilely towards the hangar bay and freedom.

He knows he doesn’t imagine the famine in Vader’s voice as it follows him out of the cell. “I look forward to it.”


	2. dead card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are, as Obi-Wan feels absolutely no remorse for pointing out, in a rather tight spot.

They are, as Obi-Wan feels absolutely no remorse for pointing out, in a rather tight spot. It’s an uncomfortably designed ship at best, far too bulky in the hold with almost no space up front: one of his knees presses awkwardly into the back of the pilot’s seat, a dull ache of metal on bone, and the lines of his own chair are so straight and severe that they almost require him to stoop forward.

Of course, they’re also practically dead in space, held just within the reach of Felucia’s orbit. The control panel blinks, faint but insistent—auxiliary life support, no navigation, engines dark. It’s almost enough to distract from the heat of Vader’s body only inches from his, except that it really isn’t at all. Later, Obi-Wan should really think about the fact that Vader’s proximity has begun to spark something a little too close to relief—a brief flash of gravity after weeks of the gut-wrenching freefall of war.

But right now, there are somewhat more important things that require his attention.

“And I’d heard so much of your piloting skills,” Obi-Wan says mournfully. He’s _seen_ plenty of Vader’s piloting skills, too, but always at a remove, a battlefield of ships and stars and heated space between them. To see the imprudent cleverness of his reflexes this close, even in a bulky freighter that has very suddenly refused to obey his commands—

Well, it’s something else entirely. Leaving the surface of Felucia, Vader had handled the ship with an art so far beyond mere competence as to be laughable, and Obi-Wan thinks, very painfully, of all Vader might have been in the fullness of the Light.

“This has _nothing_ to do with skill,” Vader bites out from the pilot’s seat, his fingers flexing on the unresponsive controls as if he wants to tear them from the console. “This ship’s a piece of junk.” He sounds like he’s not sure whether to throttle his ship or his prisoner first, and the sharp set of his shoulders practically dares Obi-Wan to say something more.

Obi-Wan, of course, is more than happy to oblige. “You’re the one who stole it,” he points out. 

“Well, maybe the Republic should start making ships that are actually _worth_ stealing.” Vader’s mouth tightens at the corner, just visible past the curve of his cheek, and Obi-Wan can see the fuller reflection of his scowl in the viewport before them. The resentment in those words is so strong that Obi-Wan can almost feel it flash through his own veins, even around the effects of the Force suppressor cuffs Vader had snapped, oddly tender, around his wrists.

“I’ll be sure to pass on your advice,” Obi-Wan assures him, letting his voice curl wryly around each syllable. He leans forward to perch his bound hands on his knees, not to avoid the unrelenting austerity of his seat, but because the motion will nearly allow him to brush his chin against Vader’s shoulder. They’re so close that his beard just catches on the chaos of Vader’s curls, auburn on gilded bronze. Somehow, it feels more intimate than any touch Obi-Wan has ever known—except, of course, for one. “If you’d like, I could escape and do that now. It would certainly save us both a great deal of time.”

In fact, if he can find a way to make it to one of the escape pods in the next few minutes without Vader stopping him, he might even set a new record. Ahsoka and the 212th will hardly have had a chance to miss him.

“Who says I _want_ to save time?” Vader crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the pilot’s seat, eyes fixed on Obi-Wan’s reflection, and there’s something there beneath the dark irritation in that voice. It shouldn’t please him, he knows, that Vader seems to anticipate the mercurial dance of their encounters as much as he does—that these peculiar moments in time have become a touchstone of sorts for them both. “Who says I’m not spending my time exactly how I want to?”

Obi-Wan looks pointedly past Vader at the flickering console, and then out at the field of stars that stretches before them, merciless and vast. He knows Vader can see the ironic quirk of his mouth, can trace the faint set of it himself on the transparisteel as his gaze finally comes to rest on his own reflection. “I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

“I have excellent taste,” Vader says, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know how he manages to sound offended and indifferent at once, but he does an excellent job of it. “But don’t worry, Kenobi, my troops will find us soon enough.”

“You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t fill me with confidence,” Obi-Wan replies around a smile, because it is an opening he cannot resist. “Your troops, after all, aren’t quite so considerate of me as you are.”

There’s silence, for a moment, stretched taut between the frame of their bodies, and Obi-Wan thinks that he would give a great deal right now to be able to sense Vader’s emotions. He truly dislikes the way the cuffs drown the flood of Vader’s Force presence, even if reading the language of Vader’s body and voice alone _do_ provide a compelling challenge. For the moment, he must make do with the dull echo of Vader’s face on transparisteel, and he files the victory of its ominous thunder away in his mind, there alongside the memory of warm fingers against beard and skin.

It would be a lie of epic proportions to say that he hasn’t thought of that moment a hundred times and more in the weeks since their last encounter, and he can’t help but wonder, here and now, what Vader currently senses from _him_.

“That will never happen again,” Vader says, and his voice is the calm of a sky in the moment before it kindles with lightning.

Obi-Wan firms his hold on his own thoughts and makes a noncommittal sound. “I suppose we’ll find out—though perhaps not today. It’s quite possible, you know, that my troops will find us first.” It really isn’t, but Vader doesn’t need to know that. Ahsoka and Cody have their orders; they’re not to interfere unless Obi-Wan is out of contact for more than twenty-four hours, and only _then_ if they can do so at no risk to themselves. It’s an order that never fails to make Ahsoka grimace in objection, Cody frown with fixed concern, but they’ll give him those twenty-four hours at least.

After all, he’s never failed to escape before, though he supposes there’s a first time for most things.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Vader’s voice is curious, and his eyes catch Obi-Wan’s in their joint reflection. “To take me captive, for once?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan says with no small touch of real humour, “I dare say I’d do a better job of it.”

“Would you?” Vader asks quietly—but not gently, not that. The words hold all the force of a collapsing star, rough and cataclysmic. “Are you even sure what game we’re playing, Kenobi?”

“Are _you_?” He thinks anyone else might have dismissed it as a weak comeback, something to simply fill the silence, an inanity born of a reluctance to relinquish the last word.

But somehow, he knows Vader will understand the true depths of his question.

“I have a pretty good idea,” Vader says, and the way he watches Obi-Wan in the transparisteel is only unsettling because it isn’t actually unsettling at all. “Does that—”

Vader stops, very abruptly, eyes narrowing in consternation, and Obi-Wan finds himself instinctively tensing at the intrusive fissure of that silence. His hands twist, bound as they are, into a defensive position—and suddenly there’s a falter of lights on the console as the backup sensors gamely try to inform them that a ship has jumped out of hyperspace, just out of hailing distance but moving rapidly closer. The barest of looks is enough to tell Obi-Wan all he needs to know.

 _Star Destroyer_.

Vader’s lips press into a thin line that does nothing to hide the luxury of their fullness, and then all of a sudden he’s moving, pushing himself decisively out of his seat and turning in the tight space of the cockpit.

“Looks like you’re escaping right now after all,” Vader tells him brusquely. “Come on, Kenobi.”

It isn’t Vader’s troops on that ship, then, which means it must be someone who outranks him—or who can make trouble for him with someone who _does_. From what Obi-Wan understands, there are very, very few of those.

Whoever it is, Vader apparently has no desire to relinquish his prisoner to them. The thought alone is enough to send a chill down Obi-Wan’s spine.

“Well, if you _insist_ ,” Obi-Wan drawls, and he stands, the weave of his robes and the dull glint of his armour skimming against Vader’s own.

There’s an urgency in the way Vader’s body crowds his out of the cockpit, through the hold, and over to a cluster of escape pods. He can feel the heat of Vader against his back the entire way, taste the bite of sweat and blood and the spicysweetness of Vader himself beneath them.

“In,” Vader says, jabbing at the controls, and the door to the nearest pod hisses open with a sigh.

Obi-Wan turns, arches one eyebrow, lifts his bound hands. “You’re not even going to uncuff me?” he asks lightly, even though he knows it’s useless. One of these days he really _will_ capture Vader, and he doesn’t think Vader will risk it happening now. It would be all too easy to pull Vader into the escape pod with him, to force him back to the surface of Felucia.

Vader reaches out, and his thumb brushes the curve of the cuff around Obi-Wan’s left wrist before dipping down to trace the tender span of veins beneath. Somehow, Obi-Wan has the distinct impression that he’s being marked, that Vader resents the presence of anything but his own fingers there.

“I wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you,” Vader says darkly, and he’s standing so close that it wouldn’t take much at all to kiss the shape of those words off his mouth, if Obi-Wan let himself. Vader’s fingers retreat to reach within the dark sweep of his own robes, and from somewhere within, he produces Obi-Wan’s lightsaber, removed from his person on the surface of the planet. Deliberately, Vader hangs it at Obi-Wan’s belt, the press of his fingers lingering on metal for just an instant before he finally steps back. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your troops find you.” 

The twist of Vader’s voice is sardonic, but beneath it there’s an odd sincerity that makes Obi-Wan’s go dry, a desert beneath the fire of Vader’s gaze. He shrugs, as if unconcerned, and then there’s really nothing to do but take a small step backward, and then another, until he’s within the confines of the escape pod. The door closes and locks behind him almost instantaneously, as if cued to his presence, and Vader’s face is gone.

Alone, Obi-Wan lifts his bound hands, punches at the release button with his knuckles.

 _Eject_.

As his escape pod hurtles into space and the firm grip of Felucia’s gravity, Obi-Wan finds himself wondering if whoever is on that Star Destroyer expects to find a Jedi captive in Vader’s possession—

And how much trouble he might be in when there isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is basically just an excuse for me to have Obi-Wan and Vader bicker as much as possible while also hopelessly pining for the enemy.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'm very behind on responding to comments because of work, but thank you so much for all of the lovely comments on the first chapter.


	3. play over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man on the other side of the force field is very decidedly not Vader. He stands stiffly at attention, the crisp lines of his uniform softened by the sweat of battle, and the alertness of his eyes says he would prefer to be just about anywhere but speaking with his master’s affronted prisoner.

The man on the other side of the force field is very decidedly not Vader. He stands stiffly at attention, the crisp lines of his uniform softened by the sweat of battle, and the alertness of his eyes says he would prefer to be just about anywhere but speaking with his master’s affronted prisoner.

“I must have misheard,” Obi-Wan says mildly from where he sits on the floor.

The officer clears his throat, and then proceeds to do a credible job of feigning disinterest but for the slight trip of nervousness in the set of his voice. “Lord Vader is unavailable,” he says again.

Obi-Wan takes his time standing, registers the flex of his own knees and the stretch of his limbs as he keeps his balance centred inwards. The dimensions of his cell are probably a little too familiar; he shifts imperceptibly, almost instinctively, to centre himself within its confines as well. “Might I ask why?”

“I...I can’t tell you that,” the officer says, his words firming up with the imperiousness of rank as he speaks, but even his refusal tells Obi-Wan plenty.

Such as the fact that he doesn’t actually _know_ why, not with _that_ hesitation haunting his voice at the start. Obi-Wan very much doubts that this man has even spoken to Vader since Obi-Wan handed himself into the care of his battalion on Geonosis.

“Well, I hardly think he went to the trouble of rebuilding my cell if he doesn’t want to see me,” Obi-Wan says. “So you’d best tell him that I’m here.” Vader is already perfectly aware, of course, must be able to sense the thread of Obi-Wan’s soul in the Force, but the officer doesn’t need to know that if he doesn’t already. Obi-Wan can feel the tempest of Vader’s own presence like an anchor, although it’s almost muted, somehow, a thundercloud spread too thin on the rising winds of a storm.

It feels almost as if Vader is trying to mask himself, to bury the resonance of his being so deep that Obi-Wan will be unable to read it. Obi-Wan can’t feel much more than that he’s _there_. It’s enough to leave Obi-Wan oddly unsettled, the memory of an unfamiliar ship out of nowhere and Vader’s terse voice yawning in his bones.

Perhaps, after all these months, Vader has decided that he’s no longer interested in _games_.

Perhaps, in the end, Obi-Wan has overestimated the strength with which Vader returns his own fascination.

It is, Obi-Wan tells himself, entirely natural to be disappointed. Vader’s preoccupation with their encounters has been a valuable diversion on numerous occasions.

“You’ll have to wait,” the officer tells him, not impolitely. He looks something close to apologetic, lips pressing into a thin, pale line before releasing again to a rush of colour, though he seems to have regained much of his equilibrium. Unfortunately for the poor man, Obi-Wan is going to have to upend it again.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Obi-Wan says, urging the lightness of his own words to cut through the weight of his regret. Ahsoka and Cody will have had more than enough time to take out the shield generator on Geonosis by now, and the longer he takes to return, the more exasperated Cody is liable to get. He’s already spent several long hours more than he should have waiting in this cell, Vader’s half-hidden presence hovering resolutely across the ship.

Obi-Wan is not here to indulge himself in the intensity of Vader’s company, or the acuteness of his mind, or the magnitude of his voice.

He would do well to remember that.

It’s almost embarrassingly easy to break out of his cell. Vader, it seems, has had it remade to the same specifications as before in every way that matters—including the slight weakness in the force field generator that Obi-Wan had once exploited above Ryloth. It’s very faint, only the barest hitch in a steady chord of power, but it’s enough.

This time, familiarity means that he can work more carefully, and that he has a better idea of just how much he needs to press at the fault line. The force field snaps in on itself, and under the incredulous eyes of the officer, Obi-Wan smiles and walks out of his cell.

“You can’t do this!” There’s a slight edge of panic, there, and a coiling of energy that’s never released, as if he’s just restrained himself from intervening physically.

“Oh, I very much can,” Obi-Wan says gently. “Unless you intend to stop me.”

The officer doesn’t flinch, not outwardly, but Obi-Wan can feel the sharp undercurrent of his apprehension at the idea. Whatever Vader’s reasons for avoiding Obi-Wan today, _that_ order, it appears, still holds. Indeed, Vader’s troops had treated him with the utmost courtesy on the shuttle from Geonosis, respectfully requesting that he hand over his lightsaber to be given to their master and carefully shepherding him onto the _Executor_.

Obi-Wan nods once in parting before he turns to go. “Tell your Lord Vader that I said goodbye,” he says, though strictly speaking, he hasn’t yet said _hello_.

Vader’s ship has become familiar enough over the months that Obi-Wan doesn’t even have to think about his route to the hangar bay. He stops to peer down the corridor to his left, sees uniformed figures turn towards him and then carefully look away, and—

 _Stars damn it all_.

He turns to the right before he can talk himself out of it, towards the muffled gleam of Vader’s signature in the Force. A nearby tech is so startled that she drops the toolkit tucked under one arm, but Obi-Wan is long past her even before it hits the durasteel beneath her feet.

He needs to find his lightsaber, after all, and there’s one person on this ship above all others who can help him do that. The trek across the _Executor_ , around corners and down thoroughfares and past uniformed officers and technicians and soldiers who all too-pointedly ignore his presence, will take far less time than tracking it down himself.

The door to Vader’s quarters is locked when he reaches it, but it’s a quick enough matter to override the control panel. The most difficult part, in fact, is trying to pick his way through the mist that confuses Vader’s presence as he does so. It’s fainter, now that Obi-Wan is so close, less eclipsing, but Obi-Wan can’t quite seem to get a grip on it. He's still trying when the door slides open to admit him.

The room beyond looks eerily familiar, though really, Obi-Wan shouldn’t be surprised that it’s so similar to his own—sleek durasteel walls, too-small bunk, minimal storage. Space is always at a bit of a premium on warships. He supposes, somewhere distractedly in the back of his mind, that he had still expected something a little more opulent of a Sith. But Vader—

“You look terrible,” Obi-Wan says as the lock re-engages behind him, before he’s even had a chance to fully process the thought, and his voice sounds appalled even to his own ears, because Vader—

Vader is a tumble of pale flesh and dark robes and half-discarded armour on that narrow frame, propped up against the head. His hand trembles just a little where it presses against one side with what Obi-Wan thinks must be a combination of injury and exhaustion.

Obi-Wan can see the wetness that seeps into the fabric around the spread of his fingers, and doubts very much that it is merely sweat. Vader does, after all, have a history of placing himself on the front lines. Obi-Wan knows that all too well, has come up against him time and time again in a chaos of bodies and blades.

How did Vader even make it back here without someone stopping him and sending him straight to sick bay?

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Vader snarls in response, or at least he tries to. The words curl in at the edges like something damp, worn, and it all hits Obi-Wan in a rush, clarity so sharp he can feel the ice of it in his lungs.

Vader doesn’t want to be seen, like this, has tried to hide himself away out of sight, out of the _Force_ , where Obi-Wan cannot see his—

His what? His failure? His mortality? 

His pain?

“Worried about me, Kenobi?” Vader slurs when Obi-Wan doesn’t answer, voice catching on that first consonant of Obi-Wan’s name. His limbs tense, for a moment, as if he might try to rise, but he seems to think the better of it.

“Curious, more like,” Obi-Wan counters slowly, and pushes away from the door to take a step further into the room. Vader doesn’t call him on the lie, not in so many words, but the dazed look in his eyes is clear enough.

_If you say so._

Obi-Wan ignores it. There are far more pressing matters at hand. “Surely you have access to a bacta tank.”

Vader grimaces, disdainful, his lips twisting at the corners. “And be helpless for days?”

“Because this is so much better,” Obi-Wan retorts, but there’s something there beneath that grimace that tells him Vader won’t hear of it again. Not fear, not exactly, but something close. “Has your Master not taught you how to meditate?” Even if Vader doesn’t want to put himself into a full healing trance, he should be able to control his pain, at the very least.

“Of course he has,” Vader mutters, but he doesn’t offer anything else.

Obi-Wan frowns in consternation, tries to sift through the fragments of information within his reach, but the only explanation he can think of makes no sense. The Sith are supposed to use their anger and their hate and their _pain_ to focalize their power.

There’s no reason why it should make Vader unable to focus now, but Obi-Wan can feel it. Vader can’t _concentrate_ , can barely even keep his thoughts and his anguish hidden from Obi-Wan this close, let alone mask it from himself. It bleeds out like tendrils into the Force, now, jagged and keen.

It must be agony for Vader.

A part of Obi-Wan knows what he should do. For all their ridiculous game, Vader is his enemy, responsible for wreaking havoc throughout the galaxy. Here he lies, barely able to string words together through the haze of injury. Obi-Wan has no doubt that Vader would put up a fight anyway, would stumble to his feet and match Obi-Wan’s attack as best he could.

But even without his lightsaber, Obi-Wan feels certain of the outcome.

The Force seems to recoil at the very thought, a discordant protest he feels in every layer of his being. It seeps up through his soul, into the span of his bones and the flex of his muscles and the blood of his veins. It shivers its way across the expanse of his skin.

He’s not sure if he’ll ever quite know why he does it, except that the Force seems to calm when he does, but he takes the three steps that separate him from Vader and buries the fingers of his right hand into the tangled sweep of Vader’s curls. They're knotted with sweat and blood. His fingers press, gently, just behind the shell of Vader’s ear, and the firmness of that contact reaches straight through Obi-Wan’s bones.

The mist parts like water, eddies of pain growing into a maelstrom of fire in Obi-Wan’s own mind, and he thinks he might make a sound of sharp dismay.

Obi-Wan is no Healer. He has no pretensions as to his abilities in that regard. But he centres himself in the Force, lets his own signature smooth along the edges of Vader’s distress. Obi-Wan feels Vader’s mind catch against his own and follow the thread of his control, clinging to it like salvation in a gale, and even the slightest lessening of pain is enough to make Vader’s face loosen with relief.

It feels natural in a way that scares him through and through.

“See a medic, at the least,” Obi-Wan says quietly. Vader nods, slow but sure in the lethargy that attends reprieve, and it will take Obi-Wan less than a minute to stop at a console on his way out of here and route medical personnel to Vader’s quarters.

 _Force_ , what is he doing?

He pulls his hand away, feels Vader’s matted curls tug at his fingers as he does, registers the loss of physical contact as a blow that nearly makes his breath catch in his throat. “I don’t suppose they’ve brought you my lightsaber yet,” he says by way of distraction. He already knows the answer; the crystals in his saber aren’t anywhere close enough that he can sense.

Still, he waits for Vader to shake his head, the bronze of his hair brushing against the durasteel of the wall behind him as he does so. Obi-Wan's fingers burn with the knowledge of what they feel like.

“My padawan is never going to let me live this down,” Obi-Wan sighs, and—yes, that’s a smile on Vader’s face as he turns to go, faint but still there.

Obi-Wan shouldn’t find that nearly as pleasing as he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm still very behind on responding to comments, for which I apologize, but thank you so much for the support on this fic. It's meant the world to me. I hope you enjoy the chapter--I was really excited to write this one!

**Author's Note:**

> This all began with [THIS](https://hurt-comfort.tumblr.com/post/628272150963453952/finefeatheredgamer-hitmewiththatfanart33) prompt, which I decided would make a fun oneshot to write, but then things got away from me.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm [treescape](https://treescape.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you ever want to come say hi!


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